


One Day

by swallowsinthewind



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: (secretly Pining Jughead Jones), Betty Cooper Needs a Hug, Betty Cooper is quiet, Betty Cooper is shy, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Sorry, I'm sorry its rubbish but I had no motivation, Jughead wants to talk to Betty, Love, Pining Betty Cooper, Ravenclaw Bughead cause why not, Song Lyrics, Their love for each other is secretly mutual, They have kinda been reversed but not really?, bughead - Freeform, more tags to add? probably, probably, slow burn maybe?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 08:37:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19849516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swallowsinthewind/pseuds/swallowsinthewind
Summary: And one day, maybe she'll stay,And start to head over his way.And one day, she'll look into his eyes,and instead of breaking, she'll call him mine...God, how she waits for that day. When she’ll reveal herself to him, be brave enough to stop hiding in the shadows. Right now she’s too scared to do more than imagine it though. She knows that pining is stupid, but what else can she do? She’s scared of rejection. More specifically, his rejection. And she’s sure that’s what she’ll get.One day he'll grab her by the waist,And force them to meet face to face.And one day, he'll look into her eyes,And say that "You're my only light"He won’t give up trying to talk to her. The fact that he’s been in love with her for years feels too important to give up on. But he’ll have to catch her first – even though she has no idea she’s been running.OrAn AU based completely off the lyrics to the song ‘One Day’ by Tate McRae.





	One Day

**Author's Note:**

> I have no motivation, way too much inspiration and no posting schedule.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and any and all feedback is welcome.

**_ One Day _ **

****

**_By Alice Crescent_ **

**Chapter One – One Hundred Thoughts**

_She stares at her ceiling once again_

_With a hundred thoughts._

_“Maybe he knows who I am?”_

_“Probably not.”_

Betty was really starting to annoy herself. Like, honestly, couldn’t her thoughts just please shut the fuck up and leave her be for two bloody minutes? She had always been an over thinker, but nights like these – when she would have about a million ideas but none of them seemed right when she actually started typing – were the worst. Especially when she would also have a huge pile of homework that needed done for the morning sitting beside her bed, which just happened to be the case tonight (and if she’s being honest, it’s pretty much every night).

She flexed her fingers uselessly over the keys, taking a deep breath and drumming on them with only her fingers tips, making a pleasant and distracting clicky noise that she enjoyed for a few more seconds before she had to accept that _some_ work had to be done at least, even if it was just a couple hundred words. _Come on, Betty, just another hundred words, then you can go back to daydreaming for a bit._ She baited herself, looking desperately for any proper motivation. At this rate, she wouldn’t get any sleep tonight, and not even if she conjured herself a million cups of coffee would she be able stop herself from being extremely tired tomorrow. Which is fair to say would be a massive pain in the ass, seeing as it would mean she couldn’t get any decent work done in class and therefore end up just have more homework for tomorrow as well. She knew that eventually it would all spiral into a black hole of no sleep ever, and then just like all the other times she would find herself falling asleep in a janitor’s closet somewhere and cutting class. Though she found herself not being able to care. It wasn’t like her mother would care after all, not like there was any concerned parents in her life.

But she still couldn’t get any words written, even with the endless mental berating. And an hour later, she just found herself sitting back in her bed and staring at the ceiling of her dorm, which was still illuminated by the light from the fire she had conjured at around ten, when everyone else’s lights were off and it was too dark to use the glow from the windows that flanked her beds headboard. It was at least half two now, and although the curtains were closed around her bed, she could hear the sounds of Melody snoring soundly in the bed beside hers, and felt a twinge of jealousy prickle in her stomach at her easy peace. Though at the same time it was calming, and she could imagine falling asleep curled up next to the rhythm, just drifting peacefully off into oblivion…oh, well apparently it was distracting as well. _Come on, it’s just_ _three hours, Betty._ She reminded herself. Just three more hours and then it’s another day.

Three more hours, which would bring her to half five, which was generally the time she would rise these days, to get the best use of the common rooms fire and comfortable chairs before other people would get up, meaning she would have to leave again. See, that was the difficulty of trying to be invisible in a place like Hogwarts, where everyone shared a living space with each other: there was always time limits on the luxuries. Except for the evenings of course, after the Ravenclaw common room became deserted, because then she could stay in there all night long. But the flames were always too comforting and distracting, which meant that there was always much less of a chance that she could get something done than when she was in her room, with the curtains drawn and everyone else asleep.

Turning back to the old typewriter her mother had given her all those years ago, the one that she had had to fix countless times using magic just to keep it alive, she heaved a sigh and tried not to let her buzzing thoughts veer off course any more than they had, repeating to herself that people (well, actually only one person, the freaking teacher,) would be counting on her for this essay on…on…what was it again? She honestly couldn’t remember, or find the will to try. All she wanted to do was sleep – something that had been just outside her reach these past few days – and the lack of opportunity was slowly disintegrating her sanity and ability to think straight. Which was disconcerting when she had so much work to do.

And then next, after losing interest on herself and her difficulties, her attention fixated onto the typewriter itself. Her eyes caressed the dark wood of its sides and top, and she actually found herself reaching out to smooth its polished surfaces, her hand finding each of its familiar dents and bumps with a practiced ease. She loved this old thing, and no matter how old, or battered, or unconventional it got, she would always pick it over anything else to write with – whether that was a proper laptop or parchment and quill. She actually the day she had got it; it was one of her favourite memories to be honest. She reflected on it often, so it played like a familiar tape in her mind, smoothly.

_Betty is just becoming thirteen, and suffering from an awful loneliness. Polly, her sister, was spending all of her time out to god knows where nowadays, and her mother was a drunk who probably couldn’t even remember what day it was. Her father, having left years ago, had lost all contact with her, and really it didn’t even matter, she never wanted to see him or his side chick ever again. And she didn’t have friends; she always kept to the shadows and was mostly left alone. It’s not as if she even particularly minds, usually. But, today, it really feels bad. You see, it’s her birthday, and not a single soul on this planet has remembered._

_She only recently finished her second year at Hogwarts, and she likes to think she has plenty of time left in her school career to make friends. But Betty doesn’t know if she can really take another one of these birthdays, where she finds herself sitting alone in her bedroom all day waiting beside the empty cage of her owl, praying that when she returns she will bring her something other than magazines or newspapers or standard, ministry distributed letters. But when her owl returned, just like last year, it came bearing nothing but a dead mouse and a bite to her finger._

_This year was turning out exactly the same as last year, and at this rate, it would be like this forever. Maybe if she just used a little effort to make friends, unlike last year, when she had barely spoken to anyone. This year had been the same in that way too, but still, maybe this year she thought things could be different. Maybe one of the girls she slept in the same room with every day would fucking remember, and would send her something out of sheer politeness at least. Or perhaps her father could do it, could finally be a dad for once._

_But it’s 11.47 now, and it seems foolish to continue to sit here ‘til twelve just in case. She knows it would be giving her false hope – something she had often been found guilty of possessing, and something she had tried to learn to stop procuring. But just when she had been about to give up and go to bed, her bedroom door opens, and in comes her mother, staggering a little - probably from both being under the influence of alcohol and being under the weight of the big box she held in her arms._

_“Mum?” Betty had exclaimed, as if she didn’t accept that this was happening. Her mother hadn’t answered right away, she simply sat the box down on the small girls bed, straightening up somewhat and saying:_

_“Happy 13 th Kiddo,” in a husky voice, before she had retreated out the room, holding an unlit cigarette in one hand, a lighter in the other._

_Inside the box, as Betty hastily rushed to open it, was a shiny wooden typewriter, set with all the ink she would need for a while and fine curvy letters that would create a perfect script atop the keys. It was the best present Betty had ever received; and she knew she would swear that until the day she died. Because with that gesture of acknowledgement, however frail, gave her hope that one day, someone else could care, and could see her like she wanted, even if to most people she wanted to be invisible…_

The happy glow of the memory didn’t linger for much longer on her mind after she had gone over it at least three times though, as the thoughts she had been desperately trying to suppress came to the surface. Sighing in defeat, she leant back against the headboard, knocking her head lightly against the wood and lifting her eyes to the ceiling once more. She never meant to think of him, but somehow he always found a way to worm himself into the front of her mind, even when she would think of something that couldn’t possibly be connected to him in any way at all. On nights like this, it was excruciating, because she really needed to get that goddam essay about hippogriffs to Hagrid tomorrow – it had been due for about three days already.

But _Jughead_. That’s what came to her mind anyway, occupying her thoughts instantaneously. _Jughead fucking Jones._

For about as long as she could remember he had been the centre of her mind. Always there, hidden at the back, waiting for a moment of silence before he would emerge again, to taunt her with his sapphire eyes. With his curly black locks that he constantly flicked out of his eyes, the ones that were always tucked away under a crown-shaped woollen hat – something she had never seen him without. Hell, even with his thick layers of robes that always seemed bunched up with jumpers and long-sleeved tops underneath. Everything about the boy always screamed at her. But she could never do anything about it. She was an idiot, one who spent far too much time thinking about something she could never have. But it all seemed cruel, because it was all by accident.

He was someone she could never have. Mildly popular, beautiful, smart and always happy. He was liked by a lot of people, and seemed to share the happiness he often seemed to possess with them. She had never once talked to him. Every time she thought about it she blushed ruby red and seemed to shrink into herself even more. He probably didn’t even know her name, she thought, though not sourly. She _tries_ to be invisible, and it’s not her fault if she’s too good at it. Though sometimes when she thinks about futures and possibilities, she imagines what it would be like to let him see her, to not hide under the invisibility cloak metaphorically and physically most of the time. It’s like bait though, hanging in front of her face, drawing her closer until it tugs her into a wormhole, where she can be tethered by wishing and dancing on the edge of doing something. Really, she knows it would be silly to show him. He would probably not care either way. After all, she was nothing to anyone. No one wanted her, not her popular shining sister, her drunk of a mother or her runaway father. No friends, no nothing.

But it would be so nice, she thinks. To have someone understand her, want her, choose her. She can’t though, and she knows that, underneath it all. Her fear of not being good enough, of being rejected for being herself, for tempting fate – that, that will always win.

So Betty tells herself _no_ , and faces her typewriter once again, her fingers poised. And she types, but she can’t control what she’s writing, about him, about everything. Betty types until her fingers hurt and her head throbs. She types of his black curls, his woollen hat, his olive skin and happy smile. It takes her breath away, and soon she loses every hope of a real story, because it’s a worm hole of temptation and longing she has fallen into, and she can’t stop any erratic motion anymore, every thought it one that has entered her mind of its own accord.

By the time the spur ends, it’s five thirty-two exactly, and her mind is still ever full of him. Some part of her had hoped that getting him out of her fingers and down on parchment would lessen the weight of him at the back of her mind, but that never happens, and he still feels like a weight on her conscious, stealing the attention of her thoughts when she stares at nothing. Just like now, as she wrenches herself out of her fourposter and sourly pulls her blue socks onto her feet, finding that she doesn’t want to wear tights today.

Oh well, she thinks, as once again her mind flutters reflexively to him when she ties her hair in a sleek blonde ponytail, she’ll just have to get that essay done by the lake before class; the place on the grounds that is always deserted at this time of day, as well as cold and slightly mushy with the morning due. It will do, but first, she’s starving, and if she doesn’t get some coffee soon she’s going to shrivel up and die.

.

.

.

The house elves loved her. Certainly, she could add them to (very short) list of people she could count on to not through tomatoes at her. But that was possibly the only thing she could be sure of between the strange master and servant relationship that was between her and the elves. They were always extremely happy and excited to see her when she arrived early for food (seeing as breakfast wasn’t ready for a few hours after she got up every day) and whenever she came by they rushed to bring her everything she wanted and more eagerly. But she was fairly sure that they did that for anyone, and that that was purely what they were bred to do. Still, she counted them as friends anyway, especially the ones that were her special favourites, the ones that were quirky for a slave, wanting rights or having gossip to share.

One of those was Lula, a small female elf that wore a clean white sort of toga that hung off one shoulder and was imprinted with the small Hogwarts crest just below her collar bone. She had huge, watery green eyes and a long carrot like nose, with ears that resembled ones of a Labrador that perked up when she was making food. Lula knew everything about Betty, and she held Lula very close to her heart, often thinking of her as a confidant. And she liked to think Lula thought of her as something more personal than the other people who would come down here, too. When she would rush out and hug her knees, tugging Betty down to her height, squealing and dragging her over to have a seat and enjoy her latest batch of cookies and some fresh gossip about conversations she would overhear when she cleaned in the shadows (an extremely outgoing and uncommon, also often undesirable trait for a house elf at best – though of course Albus Dumbledore didn’t care), that it was something that the little elf shared with no one else, that she was special and that they had a bond.

“Mistress Betty!” The little elf squeaked as betty tickled the painting of the pear that let her into the kitchens where the elves prepared the meals and congregated, her tiny voice pulsing with joy and an upbeat tune that every house elf always seemed to possess.

Betty couldn’t help but smile, exclaiming in a giggle as she was ushered over to a table in the corner by the hand of the small creature, much stronger than she looked. The table was set up like a traditional picnic one, with a check oil cloth covering it, flowers in a small pottery vase in the middle, and cutlery laid out at a single place, one that had plates upon plates laden with sweet and savoury food that looked so good Bettys’ mouth started to water. The while set up was a bit of a tradition at this point, and Betty enjoyed how she was getting used to dining like this, with such a welcoming scene of beings genuinely happy to have her there. Here, she was wanted – well, at least she thought she was, but the self-deprecating thoughts always edged all of her hope with maybes and it is a small possibility’s.

First, Betty picks up the nearest thing to her at the table, a croissant filled with raspberries and strawberries, warm and flaky in her hands. She sits at the small wooden chair that was always there for her at the table, food in hand, and begins to pick at it slowly, plucking each flake off individually and popping them singularly in her mouth. Normally, she would just shovel the whole thing in, but all she could think about was _Jughead Jughead Jughead_ , and with that came the horrible feeling of knowing that you’re pining, and that he probably doesn’t even know who she is, which put her a little off of her food.

Lula stood beside the table, grinning a tiny elf grin up at her, waiting to ask how the food was for her – as soon that is, as Betty actually takes a bite. But she can’t seem to, thoughts of his hair and eyes and hat and skin just seem to filter through her brain uncontrollably, twisting and seizing and curling around her organs. It hurts a little, and eating suddenly feels unappealing. After a few minutes of her grinning and waiting, the little elf’s face falls a little, and she begins to look anxious. “Mistress Betty,” She starts, looking nervous to even interrupt her procrastinating. She was so sweet that sometimes Betty wondered how people could see her as anything less than an equal. “Is the food not satisfactory? Lula can make more, there are other delicacies that can be made. There is crumpets with any topping, crepes, waffles, toast-”

Before Lula can finish, Betty cuts her off, stopping her before she read aloud several menus worth of food that can be made available with a snap of tiny fingers. “No, no, Lula, I’m just…feeling a little knotted…” Betty says quickly, self-consciously tucking a loose strand of blonde hair back into her neat ponytail.

“Knotted, miss?” Lula repeats, looking a little too smug and knowing for Bettys liking. “Is it about this boy of yours you is always talking about? Like usual, miss?” Sometimes Lula’s manner feels a little surreal, and the look of mischief on her face so unusual for an elf makes Betty giggle – a rare occurrence.

“Yes, Lula, knotted over the boy…” Betty clarifies, in a tiny voice that seems to be part of her personality. The elf smiles knowingly and sadly at her again, putting a small hand tentatively out to squeeze her shoulder. Betty wishes she could keep it there, to be a source of comfort when she didn’t have another one.

As soon as Betty finishes the croissant, eventually shoving it all in her mouth at once – much to the amusingly shocked expressions on some of the elves faces – and ends her conversation about the next quidditch game and the teachers views overheard with Lula, she decides that she really should go finish that essay, and after bidding goodbye to all the happy little house elves (Still at the end trying to bombard her with food to take for a later snack) she goes back up to the Ravenclaw common room, still blessedly empty, and grabs her books.

Once she’s got them she goes down to the lake, where the sun is just starting to bounce off of its dark surface and shine through the trees, settling in the slightly dewy grass and getting to work on that damn essay. But every now and again, her thoughts would still slide back to him, and she would think about how much she wished he knew who she was. Sometimes, she would argue, it would seem like he did; when he smiled at her in the corridor or waved a little. But no, he couldn’t, he probably didn’t, there was no way. She was her, and he was him. He didn’t know who she was, yet she wished he did. If only he did…

**Author's Note:**

> All of this is self-edited so apologies for obvious mistakes.
> 
> Any support is appreciated greatly.


End file.
